


Steal Some Covers, Share Some Skin

by buhnebeest



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buhnebeest/pseuds/buhnebeest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad is having trouble with his dress shirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steal Some Covers, Share Some Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [templemarker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/templemarker/gifts).



Brad is having trouble with his dress shirt.   
  
It’s just, well, the last time he wore this thing he was significantly less bulky; his latest three-month stint in [classified] left him with a lot of free time in between jumping out of airplanes and [redacted], and when Brad has free time and a lack of access to his toys and gadgets, his boredom translates into lifting weights and punching bags of sand for hours.   
  
Nate is watching him unabashedly from the bed, still only in his briefs, Pallas purring where she’s curled up in his lap. Brad ignores him studiously, as giving Nate the attention his state of undress warrants would surely only end in torn fabric and the need for another shower they really don’t have time for. He does up the buttons over his pecs again. They plop open as soon as he lowers his arms.   
  
“Fuck.”  
  
On the bed, Nate sniggers.   
  
“A little less commentary from the peanut gallery would be appreciated, sir.”  
  
“I didn’t say anything!” Nate says indignantly. His smirk weaves through the room like a melody, Brad doesn't even have to see him to know it’s there. “Now brace, I want to see if you can rip it like the Hulk.”  
  
Brad gives him the finger without looking over.   
  
“Aw, don’t be like that. This just means there’s more of you to love.” He sniggers again.   
  
Brad bites back a smirk of his own, rolling his eyes instead. “So juvenile.”  
  
“Slander. I’m perfectly serious.” There’s a disgruntled meow and a blur of white fur in his peripheral vision, the only warning he gets before Nate is behind him, snaking his arms around his waist, eyes laughing at him in the mirror. He has to get up on the balls of his feet to hook his chin over Brad’s shoulder, makes Brad take some of his weight.   
  
“Here, I’ll help you.” Nate strokes his palms over his chest, flirting his fingertips past the open sides of his shirt down to the buttons straining over his abs. Brad quirks his eyebrow at where Nate’s fingers start flicking them open with efficient twists of his fingers until his shirtfront is hanging open.   
  
“Not to question your undoubtedly well thought-out definition of ‘helping’,” Brad says, watching Nate trace the lines of his muscles, playing around with the trail of dark blond hair disappearing into his dress pants, “but this seems counterproductive.”   
  
“It has to be perfect, Brad,” Nate admonishes mock-sternly, redoing the buttons once, twice, tongue peeking out in concentration, as if he’s fooling either of them into thinking he’s actually helping Brad with his uniform and not, say, groping him. “I wouldn't want you to violate the grooming standard.” He looks at Brad in the mirror, wide-eyed, leaning closer conspiratorially to whisper in his ear. “It’s mission-critical, you know.”  
  
Brad snorts, taking the opportunity of Nate’s proximity to help himself to a kiss. He has to contort himself backwards awkwardly to get at Nate’s mouth, but Nate is nothing if not accommodating, straining up on his toes to meet him. While Brad is distracted by the slick push of Nate’s tongue licking past his lips, Nate sneaks his hand down to work on his fly.

“That’s definitely violating the grooming standard, sir,” Brad murmurs, pushing his own hand over Nate’s to still his movements. And, incidentally, to press Nate’s palm against his dick. “We’re going to be late if you keep this up.”  
  
“Fine.” Nate sighs theatrically, giving him a quick squeeze before letting go and stepping away. He heads for the closet, dropping to his knees to dig around in the bottom drawer. Brad watches the sleek runner’s muscles in his thighs, his shins, and the purpling bruise peeking out just above the hem of his briefs – possibly about equal in size to Brad’s mouth – and idly contemplates the merits of punctuality.   
  
Nate wiggles his ass. Brad shifts his gaze up to the ceiling, longsuffering. “Put on some clothes, you fucking tease.”  
  
“Bitch bitch bitch,” Nate sing-songs. He turns on his knees, grinning, and lobs a bundle of white fabric at Brad’s head, which upon further inspection turns out to be a bigger shirt. “And after I went through all that trouble.”  
  
Brad shrugs out of his too-small shirt gratefully. “And this is why they pay you the big bucks.”   
  
Nate hums in agreement, sitting back on his haunches to watch him. Brad grins and grabs his coat, heavy with pins and medals.   
  
Time for a counter-strike.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://yagkyas.livejournal.com/56650.html?thread=685386#t685386).


End file.
